


Head Full Of Doubt / Road Full Of Promise

by Vague_Shadows



Series: The Family Business [6]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Engagement, Graduation, Kidnapped Stiles, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Natural Disasters, Pack Dynamics, Wedding Night, future!fic, time stamps, wielder!stiles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 03:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Pack survived til graduation, and now they're figuring out what the hell to do with their lives.   Special guest appearances by the Winchesters.  </p><p>Each chapter will be a stand-alone time stamp.</p><p>Part 6 to the Family Business Series</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Each chapter in this work will be a time-stamp spanning from high school graduation and into college :) I'm not sure how often updates will come; I'll just promise that they'll come eventually? I've still got plans for this 'verse, I'm just also juggling a lot of stuff. Thanks in advance for patience!
> 
> Title from The Avett Brothers' song

            “So I wanted to talk to you about something,” Stiles begins, fiddling with the three orange tickets in his hands as he holds the phone to his ear with his shoulder.

            “Okay,” Derek agrees.  “What’s up?”

            “We got graduation tickets today,” Stiles says. “Everyone gets five, you know, for family and friends and stuff.” 

            Stiles pauses for just a moment. He knows on the other end of the line Derek’s making his “would you just spit it out, Stiles?” face, but he’s nevertheless being patiently silent as he waits for Stiles to keep going. 

            “I’ve just got you and dad.”

            The sentence shouldn’t put such a hollow feeling in his gut, but it does. It really does.  The fact that so many people at school, even people in the pack—Lydia, Jackson, Danny, Scott—are trying to figure out who gets their tickets between parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents while Stiles has tickets to spare puts a weird ache in his chest that he doesn’t like.  It reminds him of just how little stands between him and the bone-crushing loneliness he’s so afraid of and how close he came to losing his dad just a few months ago.

            Derek doesn’t reply, and he really should’ve waited to have this conversation in person. Even when he isn’t sure what Stiles needs to hear, Derek’s still really good at knowing when to initiate the physical contact and give Stiles the reminder that he isn’t alone when it’s most needed.

            “So I was thinking—and I know at first this is going to sound crazy—but I was thinking that maybe I would call Bobby? Maybe even Sam—so Dean too I guess? Is that—would that be too much risk? I know they’re hunters. I totally get that it sounds ridiculous for a pack to invite hunters to graduation, but Bobby’s answered more than one 2am phone call when I was freaking out trying to figure something out. Sam’s saved us. Dean saved Dad. It just seems like—like maybe it’s something that could be a good thing? A change from seeing them just when there’s imminent danger and we’re all busy just trying not to die?”  


            He can hear Derek take a deep breath on the other end of the line—coaxing his rational brain to compete with his instincts, counting to five before he forbids something, whatever the fuck he does in moments like these—and let it out in a sigh.

            “Maybe you have a point,” Derek says finally.

            “I know you don’t like it,” Stiles admits. “I know you’d rather not have them in town but—”

            “But we can trust them to an extent,” Derek replies, “not _much_ ,” he emphasizes, “but to an extent.”

“Right, I mean, they keep to the Argents’ kind of hunter code it seems like.  It’s not a free pass, but it’s—they’re kind of the hunter version of us, right? Exceptions to the hunters-are-murdering-assholes rule?”

“If you want to ask them, I’m not going to stop you.”

            “Seriously?”

            “Yes.  Full precaution rules and everything, but we can handle them being in town for a few days.”

            “That’s if they even bother coming. I mean, I think end of the world shit trumps pack graduation, but who knows?”

            “Give me half an hour to contact everyone and remind them of hunter alert protocol,” Derek tells him. “Then you can call.”

            “Thanks, Derek.  I mean it. I know you wouldn’t do this for just anything.”

            “Let me know once you’ve spoken to them,” Derek replies, not accepting the gratitude.

            “Will do.”

 

****************************************************************************************************

 

          Bobby’s a lot quieter than usual as they eat together at the diner down the block from the hotel before leaving town.  Sam only heard part of the conversation he had with Dean, but it was more than enough to get him worried. He wishes they had some excuse to go back to South Dakota with Bobby for a while, but he can’t come up with anything solid enough.  Making Bobby feel pitied wouldn’t help anything, so Sam supposes he’ll just have to make sure he and Dean call in a bit more than usual the next little while and hope it helps him feel less isolated.

            As they pay for the meal and head out to the parking lot, Sam’s phone starts to ring. A jolt of panic shoots through him when he reads the caller ID.

            “Stiles?” he answers anxiously. “You okay? What’s wrong?”

            “Do I have to be dying to call you?” Stiles replies, “because I didn’t get the memo on that particular prerequisite.”

            “No, I just meant—usually we—is everything okay?”

            “Everything’s awesome actually,” Stiles replies cheerily. “Although I may have just jinxed the shit out of us with that claim.”

          “Maybe,” Sam agrees with a huff of laughter.  “Hopefully not.”

          “Aaanyway, I tried calling Bobby, but he hasn’t been answering. He’s okay isn’t he? You talked to him lately?”

         “With him now actually,” Sam replies. “He’s fine.” 

_For a man aged with worry beyond his years and stuck in a wheelchair._

        “Oh, good. With all the shit on the news lately I was worried maybe—but never mind. Glad he’s okay.  I was just calling ‘cause I know you’re probably busy with various hunter-type jobs and shit, but if you happen to be in our half of the country, we—uh, we graduate this weekend.”

        “Graduate?” Sam repeats, slightly dumbfounded.

        “Yeah, you know. Boring ceremony. Cliché speeches. Cheaply made, overly priced caps and gowns.  Bit of paper you had to endure thirteen years of torture to earn. The works.”

         “Yeah, no—I just—wasn’t exactly expecting a graduation invitation call.”

          “Random. I know, but you guys skipped town pretty quick after everything that went down with the seal; we kinda wanted to say thanks.  Also, I’m guessing with the current shit storm going on you could use a break?”

        “Seriously?”

        “You don’t have to come. It’s dumb; I know.  It was just kind of a thought if you were in the neighborhood, and if Bobby wanted an excuse to leave that charming salvage yard of his, then you might come bum some burgers and beer off my dad at the cookout?”

        Sam glances and Bobby and knows this call couldn’t have come at a better time.

       “We’ll be there.”

        “Awesome,” Stiles replies.  “So graduation is Saturday night; we’re having people over afterwards for like a dinner thing at my house.  Don’t bring guns, okay? Derek’s not exactly a fan of this plan, but he’s not opposed to it either.”

      “See you Saturday.  I’ll call when we’re close.”

 

********************************************************************************

 

"Everything set for tomorrow?" Derek asks as he takes his usual place on Stiles’s bed.

Stiles is staring intently at his computer screen, muttering softly to himself as he scrolls through a word document.  He glances briefly over to Derek.

"Hmm?" he asks, still distracted.

"Is there anything else we need to do for the party tomorrow?"

"No. I think we're good."

"What are you working on? Finals are over." 

"Lydia's valedictorian speech. She asked me to proof it one last time."

"Is it good?"

"Lydia wrote it didn't she? What do you think?"

"What's it about?"

"How she never thought we'd survive ‘til graduation," Stiles answers with a grin.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah. I mean, she made it sound like the typical 'high school is hard and stressful but we made it through' speech, but when you know the whole back-story it's a little more literal."

 

****************************************************************

 

“You brought a camera?” Dean scoffs.  They’re off to the side but down front; Bobby’s wheelchair doesn’t exactly lend itself to the stadium seating.

“Shut up,” Sam mutters back.

“You _have_ a camera?”

“Oh my God, Dean; it’s a graduation.”

“Their parents are taking like fuck tons of pictures. You don’t need to—”

“Well, maybe I want to okay? Don’t be an asshole.”

“Fine, Sammy, whatever,”

“ _Sam._ ”

“Hey speaking of nicknames, think they’re going to call Mowgli’s real name?”

“I guess.  That’s what they usually do.   I don’t think he could get around it this time.”

“That crafty little bastard? Dude, five bucks says he bribed or blackmailed somebody into making damn sure his first name isn’t called.  God knows I would.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

“No? Ten bucks then.”

“Why is everything a fucking competition with you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fine. Fifteen.  Just so you’ll shut up.”

Half an hour later, after an intelligent and inspirational speech by Lydia that’s so full of double entendre it’s not even funny, and most of the pack has crossed the stage already, they reach Stiles name.

“Julie Steinberg.”

Dean’s elbowing Sam in the ribs like there’s any way he could miss the fact that Stiles is the next one waiting to cross the stage.  Sam huffs and shoves at him.

“Stiles Stilinski,” the announcer calls.

“Ha! Fucking told you!” Dean gloats, earning them a loud shush from the frowning grandma behind them.

“You’re such a ten-year-old.”

“Pout all you want, but I’m still fifteen bucks richer.”

“If you two knuckleheads don’t put a cork in it, I’m gonna bash your heads together,” Bobby mutters irritably.

 

***************************************************************

 

            “So—um—kind of a downer sort of question,” Stiles says, “but what with all the weird storms and weather and the earthquakes and—”

            “They broke enough seals,” Sam interjects. “It’s technically the apocalypse.”

            “Told you college was pointless,” Isaac jokes, coming to sit with them.

            “Danny’ll kill you if you back out now,” Stiles answers.

            They found out just a couple weeks ago that Isaac was accepted to Cal State, which was odd since Isaac didn’t even apply to Cal State.  Danny applied on Isaac’s behalf in what he claimed was just an attempt from being stuck as Lydia and Jackson’s third wheel for four years but Stiles suspects was actually Danny just being Danny and quietly looking after his packmates like he always does.  He hacked Isaac’s SAT scores and transcripts and decided he deserved the option if he wanted it. 

            Of course Isaac’s decision to go to San Francisco with the others—Danny and Isaac to Cal State, Lydia and Jackson to Stanford, Derek to keep them all in check—only dredged up all the arguments to remind Scott and Stiles they could come too.  It’s an argument that was settled long ago.  Even if they could leave the pack territory without anyone to keep an eye on it, Stiles isn’t leaving his Dad any sooner than Scott’s ditching his mom.  Besides, Stiles just wants to be a deputy so he’ll get paid for all the detective shit he does anyway; a criminal justice degree from the community college will serve him just fine.  Plus, once he survives Rookie School, he can take classes while he starts work at the station. Meanwhile, Scott’s going for his EMT certification while he continues helping Deaton at the clinic. 

            “You’ll have fun,” Sam tells Isaac. “It’s a cool experience to have—even if you’re not exactly typical, it’ll be good.”

            “You went to college?” Isaac wonders.  “Sorry,” he says, realizing how surprised the words came out.  “I just mean—”

            “There’s not really a Bachelor of Arts in Hunting,” Sam replies with a wry grin.  “I get it.  Yeah, I—uh—took a break for a while.  Pre-law at Stanford.”

            “Dude, that’s awesome!” Stiles says.  “You should totally give them recommendations and shit for the area. Like good bars and—” He catches Derek glaring at him and rolls his eyes. “Not that there will be any underage drinking in this pack,” Stiles adds wearily, quoting a lecture Derek’s given about a million times.  “Werewolf or not.”  Derek nods approvingly.  “Anyone ever tell you you’re a buzzkill of an Alpha?” Stiles wonders loudly.

            “Keep it up,” Derek answers.  “We’ll see what that smartass mouth of yours has to say when you’re running double laps at training.”  


            Stiles is still glad to see how relaxed Derek’s managing to be—well, how relaxed Derek’s managing to _seem_ anyway.  The first hour or so had been tense, but now that graduation’s over and everyone trickling back over to the Stilinski house, things are getting progressively more casual.  It doesn’t hurt that the last time they saw the Winchesters they were pulling strings with angels to help the pack. 

 

*************************************************************

 

            “So wheelchair, huh?” Stiles says when the others have all gone out to the back yard.  “That—uh—that sucks, Bobby. I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t need your pity, kid.”

            “They’re worried about you,” Stiles says.  “Sam and Dean. They keep watching you to check you’re okay.  It’s not because of the chair, so what’s up?”

            “None of your damn business.”

            “Ah, Bobby, come on.  You listen to me bitch about problems all the time.   Your turn.  Sharing is caring.”

            “So help me I will strangle the—”

            “Hey, go for it,” Stiles offers, “if it’ll get that look off your face.  Angry’s better than sad.”

            “I’m not sad.”

            “Sure you’re sad.  You’re in a fucking wheelchair.”

            “I’m _fine_ , you little shit. Go away.”

            “Don’t have to have werewolf mojo to know that’s a lie.”

            “I’m tired and I’m old and now I’m all but useless,” Bobby snaps.  “Is that what you want to hear?”

            “Can’t Cas—”

            “I’m not begging some angel for favors.”

            “But—”

            “He’s MIA at the moment; even when he’s not, his Grace is all fucked up these days.  He’s not the Dr. Cas Miracle Worker he used to be.”

            “You’re not useless Bobby,” Stiles counters.  “If you had head trauma then maybe, but we both know your smarts are what save people’s asses, including my pack more than once. You don’t need working legs to be awesome.”

            “I don’t need your pity,” Bobby repeats angrily.

            “It’s not pity; it’s the truth.  Don’t drop your game in favor of a pity party.  We need your focus on supernatural shit and organizing crazy ass hunters and getting good info on all this apocalypse shit—also the _apocalypse_? You didn’t think the mention that last time we talked?”

            “Not like you can do anything about it. No point in worrying you.”

            “And the wheelchair—you must’ve been in the hospital.  You didn’t tell us that either.”

            “What’re you, my mother?”

            “I’m your friend, you old asshole.”

            “And you’re a pain in my—” he cuts off the sentence as Melissa walks back in.

            Bobby wheels himself out to the back porch. Stiles wants to follow and keep yelling at him until that mopey look goes away, but he doubts it’s going to happen.  He can’t imagine having to take a blow like paralysis and be expected to keep his fighting face on.  Stiles’ minor troubles with his bad leg are frustrating enough.  He can’t believe Dean hasn’t called in Cas; then again Cas wasn’t exactly quick to help with Dad; it took come convincing even though it was as serious as it was, and if Cas is low on Grace or something, maybe he’s even less willing to help.  Stiles doesn’t know much about angel lore, just the tidbits he got from Bobby after Cas; he wants to start asking questions, but Bobby’s here for an escape, not business.  It can wait.  Besides, it’ll be a good excuse to call him later and check up with him.

 

*************************************************************************************

 

            Derek tenses as Dean Winchester walks over.  If the hunter were going to make a move, he wouldn’t do it like this, but Derek stays ready anyway.

            “Can I—uh—can I ask you a question?” Dean wonders.

            “You can ask,” Derek replies.  “Won’t promise I’ll answer.”

            _Stop trying to figure out my pack. We’re not a case to collect information on.  Keep your distance and mind your business. You’re only here because your brother wouldn’t have come without you._

“The bite can cure shit, right? Like seizures with that Reyes girl you turned?”

            “Sure, sometimes.”

            Dean just nods, but it’s not hard to guess what he’s thinking.

            “I don’t know if it would make him walk again,” Derek admits.

            “I didn’t ask you if—”

            “I’m not an idiot.  You want to know if the bite can heal him, and if it could, you’d want to know if I’d do it.”

            “Would you?”

            “Maybe.”

            “If Mowgli—”

            “ _Stiles._ ”

            “Fine, whatever. If _Stiles_ asked you to do it—for all the stuff he an Bobby work together on, for helping your pack get up to speed on how to tackle all this supernatural shit—would you?”

            “Doesn’t matter if I would or not, he’d never take the offer, and you’d hate him if he did.”

            “No, I wouldn’t.”

            “No?”

            “There’s—he’s not—he’s gonna get himself fucking killed, and I’d rather him be alive and a monster than dead and human.”

            “Huh.”

            “Besides, it’s not like—it’s not like he’d be feral or whatever—he could still be him.  Just a little extra pissed once a month. Your little pack does fine.”

            “Was that almost a compliment?”

            “No.”  


            Derek smirks, biting back all the “We fucking told you so you bigoted asshole; you can’t judge us until you know us.” Kind of comments he’d like to make because starting a fight with Dean Winchester is going to ruin the night that’s gone better than expected so far.

            “You know the bite could kill him?” Derek wonders.

            Dean nods.  He’s lost in his own thoughts, only half paying attention to Derek. There’s a kind of grief in his face that he’s trying to hide but can’t quite mask.  Derek guesses Bobby’s situation can’t be easy for any of them.  It doesn’t make him useless—God knows all the shit he’s taught Stiles has come in handy more than once—but it’s a hard blow to take. Bobby’s not exactly the optimistic type anyway.

            _Godammit Stiles was right; they’re growing on me._

He still doesn’t like having them here.  He still doesn’t like Dean talking about turning Bobby when he used to talk about what monsters the wolves all were—as though the gift is something to be given out lightly to people who don’t appreciate it.  But he’s realizing that if Bobby Singer asked, Derek would turn him—of course Bobby won’t, if Derek’s read on him is anywhere near accurate—but the fact Derek would solidifies that these hunters—Sam and Bobby for sure, Dean mostly by association and the favor with Cas—are much closer to his pack than he ever intended them to be. 

         The thought terrifies him more than a little, but when Danny comes out the back door laughing with Sam over some shared joke at Jackson’s expense, the terror ebbs _just_ slightly.  These hunters have had more than one chance to take this pack down, but they don’t.  Derek’s had more than one chance to take out the hunters, but he doesn’t.  It’s a fragile but slowly-building level of comradery.

 _Hunters and a wolf pack. Better check and make sure hell’s not freezing over._          

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE HUGE thanks to Kate for beta reading!!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, really this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY FOR THE CONFUSION! THIS is in fact the draft/version that was meant to go up, but Dragon*Con was devouring my soul by the time comments alerted me to the fact I didn't post all of the other one :( 
> 
> It's not terribly different, just some fixed typos here and there and a scene that was missing from before. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

            It’s been two weeks since the rest of the pack moved to college. This big house is quiet with just Scott and Stiles in it. It’s one of many changes to get used to as they adjust to the separation of the pack.  The unpleasant tension in the pack bonds at the initial move is waning more every day.  They’ll be fine before long; it’s only temporary, after all.

            Stiles phone trills out a ring to alert him of Derek’s video call.  He grabs it off the desk, smiling as he answers.

            “Hey, hot stuff, still managing to keep all those college girls away?” he asks.

            Stiles knows he tries too hard to pretend the idea doesn’t bother him, but the fact still stands that Derek’s a fucking gorgeous guy surrounded by college kids out to be crazy, have fun, and—

            “I told you to stop asking me that,” Derek replies.  “It’s not funny.”

            “Sorry,” Stiles answers bashfully because it really isn’t fair to Derek.  He doesn’t doubt Derek or Derek’s commitment to him.  He’s just petrified at the idea that Derek might get someplace new and start wondering if it’s really worth being tied down to someone who’s three hundred miles away.

            “How’d the entrance test go?” Derek wonders.

            “It went fine. I’m pretty sure a trained monkey could pass it.  It’s just the preliminary shit. It’s the exams at the end I have to worry about.”

            The next class of rookies starts their training on September first, so he’s got a little time to get settled in classes before he’s doing both.

            “Everyone there set to start classes?”

            “They fucked up Danny’s schedule,” Derek replies, “and there’s some bullshit with Isaac’s financial aid, but they’re easy enough fixes.”

            “Good.”

            Derek goes quiet a minute. 

            “What?” Stiles wonders.

            “This isn’t—it’s still not the same, Stiles.”

            “I said it would be _better_ than just calling,” Stiles answers.  “I didn’t say it’d be like having me in the room.”

            “I know—just—classes haven’t started yet.  You and Scott could—”

            “So help me God, Derek, if you bring that plan up one more time—”

            “I just think it—”

            “We. Are. Not. Leaving. Beacon. Hills,” Stiles interrupts, annoyed.

            _We’ve had this conversation a billion times. Stop bringing it up. It doesn’t help anything._

“Fine,” Derek answers snippily.

            “Oh my God, are you begging him to come here _again_?” Jackson’s voice calls distantly on the other end of the line.  “You’re supposed to be the fucking Alpha! Have some pride!”

            “What? Like you did when you pouted all week because Lydia wanted her own apartment?” Danny counters.

            “Fuck off!” Derek yells to the two of them.

            Stiles laughs so hard he nearly drops his phone.

            “Shut up,” Derek orders. “It’s not fucking funny.”

            “You’ll see me this weekend, okay?” Stiles reminds him. “Four more days, you can handle that.”

            “It’s not about—It’s not like I _can’t_ do it—I just—”

            “I miss you too, Derek,” Stiles says with a smile.  “I’ll see you Friday, okay?”

            “Yeah, Friday.”

            “Night.”

            This bed’s too big for Stiles to sleep in alone.  The one in his room upstairs is just a twin; he wouldn’t feel Derek’s absence quite so much, but he’s maybe more grateful than he cares to admit that the sheets still smell a little like Derek down here.   Stiles puts up a pretty good game face, but he wishes like crazy there was a way they could all be in the same place.  He’s wondered more than once if he should have listened to all the arguments in favor of Stiles and Scott joining the others in the move, but, in the end, staying here just felt like the right course to take.  They’ve handled so much more horrible scenarios than the pack being separated by a long drive. 

            _We’ll be fine once we’re used to it.  Everything will be fine.  I’ll see him Friday. No time at all._     

 

*************************************************************

 

Derek flips on the news, as per usual, and plops onto his couch with his coffee.  He’s on his feet again in the next instant when the reporter’s words sink in:

            “The epicenter of this 7.4 earthquake was just outside the town of Beacon Hills, search and rescue are moving as fast as possible to locate those trapped in rubble as medical facilities rush to handle the influx of…”

            He jumps to his feet, running to his room as he dials Stiles’ number.  The panic rising in his chest grips him so tight he can barely breathe.  When Stiles doesn’t answer, he grabs his keys from the nightstand and heads toward the door, dialing Scott instead.  He hears Isaac call after him, but doesn’t stop.  He can’t.  He can’t think of anything except the horrific things that could happen to Stiles’ fragile human body in the onslaught of an earthquake. 

            _I should have been there. I should have been with him.  What if he’s hurt? What if he’s buried and they can’t find him?_

_What if…_

_What if…_

_What if…_

Scott doesn’t answer either.  Derek alternates dialing Stiles, Scott, the sheriff, and Melissa, but no one answers.  He’s all but flying down the interstate, pushing the limits of the Camaro in the desperate need to close the distance.

            _Please be okay. Please be okay. Please be okay._

_They can’t be dead. I’d feel it.   I’d have to._

_Please just be okay._

“Hey, Derek,” Scott says when he finally, _finally_ answers the phone.

            “Scott? Are you okay? Is Stiles okay? What’s—”

            “Derek?” Scott says again. “Derek—can’t understand—we’re—hospital—”

            “Hospital?” Derek repeats, ice running though his veins.  “You’re at the hospital? Is Stiles at the hospital? Is he hurt?”

            _I should have been there. I should have protected him. I could have helped._

            “Aftershock!” Scott’s voice thunders from the other end of the line. “Get to the—” the line goes dead mid-sentence, and though Derek frantically redials their numbers, the lines go straight to voicemail. 

            _The network’s just down. That’s all. Not because something happened to the phones. The network is just down._

He presses the gas pedal ever harder, speeding on toward Beacon Hills, dreading what he’ll find when he gets there.  It seems an eternity before he reaches areas clearly hit by the quake.  It’s not total decimation, just cracks in the road, the occasional building partially collapsed, but the damage grows worse as he nears Beacon Hills.  It’s odd how so many buildings seem perfectly fine except for the fact that their neighbors have crumbled away. 

            _Maybe it’s not so bad. Maybe wherever he was wasn’t so bad._

_But when do we ever have that kind of luck?_

_Why would he be at the hospital if it’s not that bad?_

Derek sees the chaotic cluster of cars and people outside the building before he reaches the hospital.  He pulls into the lot of a law office and ditches the car in favor of running on foot.  There are several deputies outside trying to organize the crowd as nurses triage patients.  He doesn’t the the sheriff or Melissa though, so he darts into the hospital and is met with total chaos.  There are patients in every chair and bed, people crying and screaming, the smell of blood is even worse in here than it was outside.  Most of the injuries in the waiting room seem to be minor, but it’s clear they’re ushering the most wounded patients away to other locations.

            And Stiles isn’t out here. 

            “Stiles Stilinski,” he says, grabbing a passing nurse.  “Have you seen—”

            “One of the O.R.s,” she tells him, barely pausing; she gestures in the general direction, and Derek takes off, sprinting for all he’s worth as he dodges patients and their loved ones. 

            He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t let his thoughts run away with all the ways in which he may have lost the person he loves most in this world.  Just when he thinks he’s about to lose it completely, he rounds the corner, and nearly slams into a nurse, but he dodges and keeps going until a voice calls after him.

            “Derek?”

            He spins around, nearly losing his balance, but that doesn’t matter because in the next moment his knees buckle completely and it’s only two hands clasping him firmly by the shoulders that keep him from falling completely.

 

*************************************************************

 

            “Derek, what’s wrong? What’s—”

            “You’re okay,” Derek says almost inaudibly, like speaking them too loudly will shatter the image before him. 

            Stiles moves his hands up to frame Derek’s face.  He can’t tell what’s wrong, but Derek looks as pale and exhausted as he did when he’d been shot with wolfsbane.

            “Derek, what happened? Are you hurt? Are you—”

            Derek’s shaking his head, tears coursing his cheeks now, and Stiles is so fucking confused.  He looks Derek up and down, trying to find the source of his injury, wondering if he has some kind of head trauma.  He tries not to panic when Derek slumps forward, head collapsing on Stiles’ shoulder.  He sound like he can’t draw in enough breath, and Stiles is doing his best to keep it together.

            “You’re scaring me. Tell me what happened. Tell me what’s wrong.”

            “I thought—I thought you were hurt,” Derek mumbles, voice muffled into Stiles chest. “I thought—the earthquake—and Scott said you were at the hospital—I just—I thought something happened, and I wasn’t here and— _fuck,_ Stiles.”

            _And you’ve been amped up for hours now thinking I was maybe dying in a hospital.  Fuck._

“Listen to me,” Stiles says gently, holding onto Derek tightly now he knows there’s no injury to worsen.  “I’m okay. I’m totally, totally fine, but there are a lot of hurt people and I have to—”

            “Yeah, yeah, of course,” Derek says, pulling away and clearly trying his best to regain his composure.  “Where should I—what can I do?”

            “Dad’s out working search and rescue with Scott.  Head to the station and they should be able to tell you were the teams are and you can help out.”

            “Okay, you’re—you’re good here. Everything’s—”

            “I’m fine, Derek; I’ll be fine. I promise.  I’ll see you at home later, okay?” he says, leaning in for a kiss before getting back to his feet.

            Derek still looks a little dazes as Stiles walks away, but his heart beat is even and his breathing’s normal again, so he’ll have control of himself again soon enough.  By the time Stiles turns to look back, Derek’s striding purposely out of the hospital.            

 

**************************************************

 

            “Need a lift?” the sheriff wonders as the search and rescue workers disperse, a new shift of rested workers is coming in, and as much as Derek wants to keep at it, he’s exhausted to the bone.

            “Yeah,” Derek replies, realizing his car is still in town at whatever law firm’s parking lot he careened into earlier.

            “I’m taking you home; you’re in no state to drive.”

            “And you are?”

            “I took a break or two, kid.  You haven’t slowed down since you showed up.”

            Derek always has to fight a smile when the sheriff calls him “kid”.  He’s one of the few people—if not the only person—in Derek’s life that sees him that way.

            “I’m all right.”

            “We’ll stop by the hospital,” the sheriff says.  “Knowing Stiles he’s still there.”

            They find Stiles snoring in a chair in the break room.  According to Melissa what started as a five minute break quickly became a nap, and since she’d been trying to get him to slow down for hours, she let him sleep.  Derek manages to pick him up without waking him.  Looking down at Stiles sleeping peacefully, Derek can’t help but think how fragile he looks.  He can’t help noticing the small bruises and scratches on Stiles; he can pick up the smells of blood and death and fear that have surrounded Stiles all day.  He can’t even begin to express how grateful he is that Stiles has been here, helping instead of needing help, and that Derek can carry him healthy and whole out to the car to lay him gingerly across the back seat.  Stiles sleeps until they get home.  Derek offers the sheriff a bed, but the older man declines, saying he needs to check on his house anyway.

            “Derek?” Stiles mumbles sleepily.

            “Yeah, shhh, go back to sleep.”

            “We’re home?”

            “Yeah.’

            “Oh. I can walk. I—”

            “Shhh, sleep,” Derek says again, and Stiles leans his head back against Derek’s chest and lets him carry him to the bedroom.

            They both need showers, but Derek doesn’t have the care or the energy.  Instead he just helps Stiles strip to his boxers and tucks him into one side of the bed before climbing in on the other.  Stiles rolls over to him, positioning himself so his head’s on Derek’s chest.  Derek rubs circles on Stiles’ back, trying to soothe him back into a deep sleep. 

            “Glad you came,” Stiles mumbles.  “Sorry you worried.”

            “Doesn’t matter,” Derek replies.  “As long as you’re okay.”

            “Mmmhmm,” Stiles replies.

            Derek’s not even sure Stiles is awake anymore when he wonders quietly, “I love you, Stiles; you know that? I can’t—I can’t lose you; I—”

            He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Stiles wakes more and looks up at him, reaching to wipe at Derek’s tears with his thumb. 

            “Hey,” Stiles says.  “I’m right here. I’m okay. You’re not going to lose me.”

            “I could’ve.”

            “You _didn’t_ ,” Stiles reminds persistently. 

He raises up on his arms and brings his lips to Derek’s, kissing slow and deep, lingering in Derek’s space as he pulls away.    

“And to answer that question, yes, I know you love me,” Stiles says with a smile.  “And I love you back when you’re not being a sourwolf.”

Derek huffs a laugh.   “You love me _more_ when I’m being a sourwolf,” he counters.   

“Fuck you,” Stiles retorts.

“Maybe later,” Derek says with a lazy shrug.  “I’m kinda tired right now.”

The quip gets a laugh out of Stiles and Derek soaks in the gleeful sound of it, swearing mentally to never take it for granted again. 

“Hey, Stiles?”

“Yeah?”

“Marry me?”

Stiles sits bolt upright in surprise, and Derek instantly wonders how the hell those two words—maybe the most important fucking words he’s ever going to say—managed to slip out of his mouth without his brain’s permission.

“What?”

He thinks for just a moment of trying to ignore the moment, of pushing past it and going on the way they have been which has been _so_ fucking good regardless of all the hell that rains down on them sometimes.  But Stiles is smiling in his confusion, and he doesn’t look freaked, he looks kind of excited.

“Marry me,” Derek repeats. 

He cherish ‘til the day he dies the dazzling grin that spreads across Stiles’ face at the reiteration.

“Hell yeah,” Stiles agrees readily, surging in for a kiss.  

 

***********************************************************

 

            Stiles wakes to light coming in through the windows, the mockingbird in the back yard singing for all it’s worth, and Derek’s light snoring.  He can’t help smiling as he turns his head up to look at Derek. 

            _Mouth hanging open, drooling just a little, snoring, and yet still my boyfriend is undeniably attractive._

_No, not boyfriend._

_Fiancé._

_Holy shit I have a fiancé._

He grins at the realization and the buzz of excitement it sends through him.  He starts a trail of kisses at Derek’s sternum, ending with a nip at his ear lobe.

            “Morning to you, too,” Derek mumbles sleepily.

            “Rested up yet?” Stiles wonders quietly, “because I remember vague promises of sex, and I think we-just-got-engaged sex will probably be pretty awesome.”

            _That_ wakes Derek up, eyes going wide as they meet Stiles’.

            “We just got engaged,” Derek repeats, and the small smile the brightens his face at the words is so fucking adorable Stiles can’t help but lean in to kiss it.          

            “Mmmhmm,” Stiles agrees, “and I,” he goes on between kisses, “want to…fuck…my fiancé.”

            He slides his hand down to palm Derek through his boxers.  Derek groans and arches up into the touch. 

            “Fuck yes,” he agrees enthusiastically, and Stiles huffs out a laugh.

            Stiles still isn’t quite sure how to read the look Derek’s been giving him since yesterday, but he likes it.  He’s guessing it’s residual from Derek’s prolonged panicking at the thought of losing Stiles, and while he hates the terror that may have inspired the gaze, it makes him feel loved and wanted and treasured and _adored._

“Flip you for it?” Derek wonders.

It’s the usual method for deciding who tops; there’s a fifty cent piece in the nightstand devoted to that purpose. 

“No,” Stiles replies.  “Let me ride you?”

_Because that adoring look will be even better with the flare of lust that’ll come from watching me fuck myself on your cock._

Derek moans at the mere suggestion and Stiles chuckles as he supposes, “That’s a yes?”

 

************************************************************

 

            Derek doesn’t know how the fuck he holds out as long as he does.  Stiles—the most impatient person Derek’s ever met in his life—is riding him _achingly_ slow.  The sounds coming out of that mouth, head thrown back and throat exposed are more than enough to have Derek memorized, but even better is the look Stiles’ face when he brings his eyes to Derek’s. There’s lust and love and pride and pleasure—and just everything that he loves aboutStiles all written in the knowing smile he’s giving Derek.

“Ask me again,” Stiles says breathlessly as he picks up the pace.

“Marry me,” Derek answers, more statement that question.

“Yes,” Stiles moans, throwing his head back again, working his cock as he sinks down on Derek’s.

“Marry me.”

“God, yes.”

“Marry me.”

“Hell yes.”

“Marry me.”

“Fuck, Derek, _fuck. Fuck_ yes!”

Derek’s cries out curses and Stiles’ name and God knows what else as he comes with Stiles clenching deliciously tight around him.

_Holy fucking shit and he wants to marry me._

_Can we just skip to the honeymoon?_

“So yeah, definitely a fan of just-got-engaged sex,” Stiles says as he plops down on the bed next to Derek. “Can’t fucking wait to try just-got-married sex.”

The sentiment’s so close to reading Derek’s mind he can’t help the peal of laughter that escapes him. 

_Why the hell didn’t we do this sooner?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies as always for the time I take between these chapters. Thank you for your patience and continued interest in this 'verse! :D Y'all rock!!!

            “Wakey, wakey,” an unfamiliar voice coaxes just before Stiles is doused completely in water. 

            He sputters and struggles only to find his wrists are bound behind him with bond he can’t break.  He wills a burst of wind to knock the captors back, but nothing happens.  It takes every ounce of control not to panic. 

            _I feel like shit. Why do I feel like shit? I was buying groceries and then—nothing.  What the hell happened?_

“This can go one of two ways, you little monster,” the man informs him.  “You can tell me what the fuck you are, or I’ll _make_ you tell me.”

            “What?”

            He backhands Stiles hard across the face.  “Don’t play dumb with me, kid. What the fuck are you? You’re not a beta, but you’re damn sure not a human.”

            “What do you want with me?”

            “We heard the Beacon Hills pack was building back up. Heard Chris Argent was going soft on ‘em, letting ‘em build.  Looks like the info was good.  Hale’s getting experiemental.  We did our research; there’s fucked up shit going on in this town that isn’t explained with werewolves.” The tip of his gun digs hard into Stiles’ temple.  “Whatever you are, I’m betting a bullet to the brain would be damn hard to come back from.”  It takes all Stiles’ self control not to recoil.   “Tell me what you are!” the hunter thunders, gun digging in even farther.

            “I’m a wielder,” Stiles blurts.

            The hunter huffs a laugh.

“Kid, I’ve seen wielders before.  You were unconscious and still working your powers.  You’re too powerful to be a wielder.”

            “Maybe you just met shitty wielders.”

            The gun crashes hard against the side of Stiles face, and he can’t hold in a yelp of pain.

            “Don’t sass me, son.  What _are_ you? What’s Hale toying around with? Breeding better werewolves? Witchcraft? Demon deals? What’s this pack working with? 

            “Nothing. I’m just a wielder.”

            “Then tell me why the wolfsbane works on you.”

            Stiles follows his eyes to the table that bears a vial and large syringe.  This fucker _injected_ him with wolfsbane? No wonder his powers are shit.

            “I got scratched, but it didn’t turn me.”

            “Hale?”

            “No.”

            “You couldn’t betray your Alpha if you tried; don’t know why I’m asking.”

            “Look, what the hell do you want with me? I didn’t hurt anyone, okay. I—”

            “I’ve seen the reports; the “animal attacks” around here are fucking endless.  I’m not stupid.  It’s you and your little pack.  You think I’m just going to ignore a bunch of monsters and let you keep ripping civilians apart?”

            “We’re not—”

            “Just shut up.”

            “We didn’t—”

            He shoves a rag in Stiles’ open mouth, muffling the sound.  Stiles tries to pull away when he grabs duct tape to secure it there, but there’s not really any retreat to be had.  Honestly, he’s so fucking drained he wouldn’t be much good at struggling even without the restraints.

            The hunter’s phone rings out the guitar solo from Hotel California and he answers with a gruff, “Coleman.”

            “Where are you?”

            _Bobby? Holy shit is that Bobby?_

_Did he—no. No, Bobby wouldn’t send them. He wouldn’t. No, Bobby, no._

“California.  You got a job?”

            “Outside Sacramento, looks like some kind of ritual sacrifice.  You working a case already?”

            “Yeah, shouldn’t be more than a day or two.  Taking down some werewolves, but the plan’s half through. I got the bait, just gotta wait for them to come try and rescue this little mix-breed freakazoid frankenstien they made.”

            “Werewolves, huh? I thought Argent handles all the werewolf shit west of the Rockies?”

            “I think he’s going soft on us, Bobby.”

            “Huh.  Shame.  Look, Kent, you say you’ve got one of them who’s a mix-breed? He a wielder?”

            _Oh please have a plan Bobby.  Please, please, please._

“Yeah, but there’s something else going on with him.  I can feel it.”

            “Well whatever it is, you could trade him to the Winchesters.  They hate that little shit.”

            “Really?”

            “Yeah, got a bone to pick with him for something. I don’t know what; didn’t ask, but their Daddy left ‘em some powerful talismans.  You should think about making a trade.”

            “Huh, might do that.  Thanks, Bobby.”

            “No problem.”

            “Give you a call when I finish up here, see if you still need someone on that Sacramento job.”

            “Sure.” 

 

****************************************************************

 

            “Winchester,” Sam answers.

            “It’s Coleman,” Kent’s familiar voice replies.

It’s been four months since they showed up late to the demon purging party Kent had in a little town in west Oklahoma.   He’s a good hunter, but a little too Gordon Walker for Sam’s liking.     

“I think I got something that might interest you,” Coleman goes on.

“Oh yeah?” Sam asks, putting the phone on speaker so Dean can hear too.

“Yeah, Bobby says you boys got some unfinished business with this little shit of a wielder that runs around near Beacon Hills.”

“What’s it to you?” Sam wonders, though his heart’s already pounding at the answer he can guess.

“Well, I just happen to have him dosed on wolfsbane and ready to transport if you’re interested in a trade.”

“Fuck yes,” Dean growls.  “What d’you want for him?”

“Well, hey, Dean,” Kent says, and Sam can hear the grin at his voice at the affirmation that he’s indeed got something they want.  “Sounds like Bobby was right about—”

“What d’you want for him?” Dean repeats.

It’s such a contradiction to watch.  His voice conveys only contempt and anger, but Sam can see the concern creasing his brother’s forehead. 

“What’s he worth to you?”

“That little shit,” Dean answers with a coldness that would give Sam chills if he hadn’t grown up admiring it, “He’s—I want to strangle the life out of him myself.  It’s personal.”

“You still got that hex bag from Salem?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the trade.”

“We’re in Utah.  Meet us in Nevada,” Dean says.  “Elko.  I want him alive, you hear me? If we’re trading this much for—”

“Understood. Just bring the bag.”

The line goes dead now the deal is done.  Dean glances worriedly over to Sam as he pushes harder on the throttle and urges the Impala even faster. 

_Jesus Christ, Stiles. What did you get yourself into?_

 

**************************************************************

 

            “Singer?”

            “Get your Alpha ass to Beacon Hills,” Singer orders.

            “What?!”

            “Some hunter has Stiles so God knows where the hell Scott is.  Just hope they’re dumb enough to—”

            “Hunters?!”

            Derek’s bounding out the door, Isaac and Danny hot on his heels as he sprints to the Camaro.  “Who the fuck is it? What do they want?”

            “Your head on a stake probably.  It was a goddamn miracle I called the guy when I did.  His plan was to use Stiles to bait the rest of you.”

            “His plan _was_? So what is the plan now?”

            “I told him to trade the wielder to Dean Winchester. Bullshit story about unfinished business.  Hopefully it’ll keep Coleman on the road too much to hurt Stiles too badly.  Dean and Sam made it clear they wanted him alive, but—this hunter—let’s just say he doesn’t play around.”

            “Fuck.”

            “Good luck, Hale.”

            _I don’t need luck. I need a fucking get and three minutes alone with the idiot who decided to fuck with my pack._

********************************************************************

 

            “Okay, Wielder, we’re going on a little ride,” Coleman says with a grin that sends a chill down Stiles’ spine.

            Stiles shakes his head, making pleas that can’t be understood through the gag as he decides to play full Br’er Rabbit. Coleman chuckles. 

“You’d think things like you would’ve learned the Winchesters are the one family you don’t piss off.  I know _humans_ scared shitless of those fuckers.” 

He crouches to look Stiles in the eye. 

“What did you do to piss them off so much?”

He reaches to remove the gag.

            “Don’t give me to the Winchesters, please,” Stiles begs.  “What do you want to know? You want me to tell you what I can do? Or—”

            “Nothing I get from you is worth a hill of beans next to that hex bag.  I’m taking you to them, getting the clear better end of the deal, and then I’ll come back and take care of the rest of your pack.”

            “No! No you can’t! Please! Just kill me! He’ll—”

            The rest of Stiles supplications are garbled by the gag.  Coleman gives one more searing injection of the wolfsbane mixture, sinking the needle deftly into Stiles’ neck, before he hauls him up from the chair and carries him out to the car.  The whole way Stiles struggles weakly, continuing “pleas” that are really just whining sounds against the gag to keep up appearances.  Coleman dumps him unceremoniously into the trunk, slamming the lid down and trapping Stiles in darkness.

            _Please let this plan fucking work._

 

***************************************************************

Derek calls the sheriff who uses the coordinates of Scott’s phone—yet another reason adding Danny to the pack was on od the best choices they’ve made—to find Scott on the edge of the preserve, half-dead in a pool of his own black blood.  Derek should go to Beacon Hills, but with Scott found, Stiles needs them more; besides, as much as Derek may like to think he doesn’t play favorites, Stiles is still _Stiles,_ and Derek can’t stand the thought of letting anything delay going to his recue, no matter how confident Bobby was the Winchesters could get him away from the other hunter safely.

 Derek calls Jackson, instructing him and Lydia to get up to Deaton’s as soon as he can in case there are more hunters around.  Derek, Danny, and Isaac speed down the highway headed for Elko. Derek’s losing his fucking mind with worry, pulse bonding in his ears and the shift waiting just under the surface, fraught with the need to protect.

            _Please be okay, Stiles. Please, please. I’m sorry I wasn’t there; I’m so fucking sorry.  Just please be okay._

***********************************

 

            The trunk opens and Stiles squints against the harsh light.   He swings his bound arms at Coleman’s hands as he reaches for Stiles with another syringe.

            “Hold still, you little fucker,” he commands, syringe in one hand as he lands a blow to Stiles temple with the other, and Stiles sees stars.

            He uses one hand to smash Stiles face down into the rough carpeting of the trunk and the other to add the replenishment of wolfsbane into Stiles’ neck.  Stiles hisses as he feels the searing serum dissipate into his system; he wonders what kind of dose Coleman’s using.  He’s not a full werewolf.

_Can Coleman like—overdose me or something?  If I don’t heal as quickly as Coleman thinks I can?_

“Stop,” he mumbles, hating how piteous his voice sounds, hating that the word slipped out at all. 

            The guys chuckles.  “Boy, when Winchester gets ahold of you, a little wolfsbane is going to be the least of your worries.”

Stiles winces at the harsh crashing of the trunk coming back down. 

_Please let that be the last does before Sam and Dean get me.  Please._

With every bump and turn, Stiles is having an increasingly difficult time telling which was is up or down or anything really.  The poison seems to be working ever more rapidly this time around.  His stomach churns, and he loses his battle to fight down the bile on a particularly winding stretch of road.  The stench of the vomit has him dry heaving long after his stomach’s empty.  He doesn’t need to see it to know the rancid odor indicates the black gunk that accompanies wolfsbane poisoning in the others; if he weren’t so busy feeling like death, he’d probably be intrigued at what he can garner about his wolf characteristics from this new information.  As it is, it just confirms what he feared.

_I don’t have enough healing potential in me for this. My system can’t take this much wolfsbane._

            By the time the car finally, finally stops again, Stiles has been wallowing in various forms of his own refuse for what seems like an eternity.  He’s got zero sense of time left, but he doubts he’s going to survive another round of Coleman’s concoction even if it’s been a lifetime since the last dose.  He wants to shy away or protest when the trunk opens again, but he doesn’t have the strength for either. 

            “The fuck did you do to him?”

            Stiles swears there has never been a more welcome sound in the world than Dean Winchester’s gravelly tone in this moment.

            “Had to keep him sedated, didn’t I?”

            “I said I wanted him—”

            “Alive,” Coleman interrupts, “which he is.  So I’ll take that hex bag now if it’s all the same to you.”

            “Sure, fine, whatever,” Dean mutters.  “It’s in the car.”

            Stiles mind alights with terror when the sharp crack of the gunshot reaches his ears.  He tries to yell Dean’s name, but the sound that comes out of his mouth doesn’t even sound human, much less like a word.  Hands grab at his face, and Stiles can’t help but whimper. 

            “Hey, hey, it’s cool, Mowgli; it’s me,” Dean’s voice soothes, more tender than Stiles ever reckoned it could be.  “What’d he dose you with, huh?”

            “Wo—wol—”

            “Wolfsbane? Something with wolfsbane?”

            “Mmmmm.”

            “DEAN!” Sam’s terrified voice shouts.

            “Here, Sammy,” Dean replies.

 

***********************************

 

            Some of the terror in Sam abates at the sight of his brother seemingly unharmed.

            “I heard the shot and—”

            “Had a little disagreement with Coleman,” Dean dismisses with a glance to the body by the impala. 

            “What the—”

            “Not now, Sam.  Help me find something to give the kid.  I don’t know how the wolfsbane shit works.”

It’s only then that Sam takes in the sight of Stiles, pale as a ghost, tendrils of black coursing every vein Sam can see.  He’s covered in vomit and blood and shit and—

“Son of a bitch,” Sam curses.  “What the fuck did—”

“He’s dead, okay? And Stiles is right fucking behind him if we don’t figure out what the hell to do.  Come on, College Boy.  Is there like an antidote or something?”

“Maybe?”

  _We keep both tranqs and uppers for when we need to bring monsters back to consciousness for interrogation._ _Maybe Coleman did too?_

“Nothing we can get.  Just gotta hope Coleman’s got something.  Otherwise…”

Sam doesn’t finish the sentence as his eyes fall back on Stiles.

            “Then help me look,” Dean orders, laying Stiles back down for the moment.

            They ransack the bags of gear in Coleman’s sedan until Sam finds the small pouch in the front floorboard that contains several vials and syringes.

            “They’re different, but I don’t know what’s what,” Sam says. 

            The tinge of color in each container is slightly different, but there’s no kind of label to offer a hint at which is the right one, if either is “right” at all.  Maybe they’re just lesser and higher doses.

            _Please let us be lucky once. Please._

            “Another dose of anything with wolfsbane will kill him,” Sam says as Dean comes over to study the options with him. 

            “No shit, Sherlock.”

            “So what do we do?”

            “C’m’on,” Dean says, gesturing for Sam to follow him to heading the back of the car.

            “Dean, what’re you—”

            “Mowgli, hey, you with me?” Dean says, shaking Stiles who groans in protest.  “You can smell like a werewolf and shit, right? Can you smell wolfsbane?”

            “Mmmmm.”

            “Gonna sit you up, okay?”  Dean says as he pulls Stiles to sitting again.  “God, you reek.”

            “ _Dean_ —”

            “Hand me a vial, Sam.”

            Sam obliges, opening one and passing it over.

            “Here.”

            Stiles recoils from the vial, whining, “Wooolfs…”

“Okay, try the other one,” Dean orders like Sam isn’t already unscrewing the cap.

“Don—dunnnooo.”

“So what? Do we try it?” Dean wonders.

“I don’t fucking know, dude.  We could kill him if it’s the wrong stuff.”

“You got a better idea? ‘cause I don’t really think he could take a ride home to his mojo man.”

“Stiles, d’you—you want us to—try it? Or you want Deaton?” Sam asks.e

“Der—derrr—”

“What’re you saying? Dude, there were _two_ fucking options, Mowgli.”

 

***************************************************

 

            _Derek.  I want Derek._

_I’m gonna die and it’s going to kill Derek. And Dad._

_But Derek.  Derek._

_I was going to marry Derek._

He whimpers as hands shake him too roughly. 

            “Try this or Deaton?” Dean demands harshly, and Stiles remembers he’s supposed to be picking something. 

            _Deaton’s far.  Deaton’s too far. Hurts. Fading into the hurt.  Dying?_

_Derek. Want Derek._

“Stiles!”

            “Try,” he murmurs, the effort of the word draining him further. 

            There’s a sharp pinch in his neck, but his veins don’t burn like he expected.  It doesn’t feel good, but it doesn’t feel worse.  He tries to tell them that, but his mouth won’t cooperate; his eyes won’t either, drooping shut though he tries to keep them open. 

            “Mowgli? Mowgli! Come on, you little shit, stay with us!”

 

*****************************************************

 

            “Fuck, Dean, Fuck!” Sam panics as Stiles slups. “We—we—”

            “He’s breathing; he’s not—I don’t think it was—maybe he’s just exhausted.  He’s probably just exhausted and shit, right? I mean look at him.”

            Sam is, and the sight has fury burning through his veins.  Stiles hasn’t hurt anyone—except self defense a time or two.  He’s fought for the people he cares about, fought for his town; hell the kid was trying to help save the whole damn world before he even managed to get out of high school.  He doesn’t deserve this, no matter how human or supernatural he may be.

            “That rat bastard,” Sam mutters, with a cold glare to Coleman’s lifeless form.  “Shoot him myself if you hadn’t.”

            “Honestly, Sammy, I was expecting a lecture.”

            “Not this time,” Sam replies, looking down at Stiles with a sick feeling that has nothing to do with the odor.  “Come on; We gotta get him cleaned up.”

            “You take him and call Hale or Deaton or whoever,” Dean says.  “I’ll take care of Coleman.”

 

*************************************************

 

            Stiles wakes feeling as though he’s been hit by a bus.  His breathing is shallow, but even.  He feels groggy as hell, and his memory is as fuzzy as his vision.  There are raised voices outside the door of this room—motel room?—he’s in.  He wonders if that’s what woke him. 

            “You _think_ it was the antidote?! What the fuck do you mean _think?!”_

“Derek,” Stiles murmurs, recognizing the enraged voice.  “Derek?”

            The door bursts open, and Stiles flinches at the sudden intrusion.  In the next instant Derek’s at the bedside, hands on Stiles shoulders.

            “Stiles, you awake? Look at me.”

            Stiles opens his eyes more fully, gaze meeting Derek’s. 

            “What hurts? What’s wrong? Come on; we’ll get you to Deaton.”

            “No,” Stiles protests as Derek moves to pick him up.

            “No? What the fuck, Stiles? You’re—”

            “Better. Feel better.”

            _Please stop.  Everything fucking hurts. I’m not moving for like the next five years, dude._

            Derek hesitates, looking at Sam who’s hanging back in the doorway.

            “You feel better? What they gave you helps?  You’re sure?”

            “Mmmmm.”

            “I’m gonna call Deaton; maybe he can come meet us or—”

            “Stay?” Stiles requests summoning the immense strength it takes to reach his hand out for Derek’s, remembering too late that the hunters don’t—and probably shouldn’t—know about them.  “Please?”

            “Yeah, sure, Stiles,” Derek replies.  “I’m not going anywhere.”

            “I can—uh—ask Danny to call for you?” Sam offers.

            “That’d be good. Thanks.”

            “No problem.”

            Sam leaves them, and Derek continues to study Stiles.  

            “I’m better,” Stiles says again, because while he may still feel like shit he’s pretty sure he’s not dying.  “Promise.”

            _Don’t look so worried.  You look so tired when you get worried.  I don’t want to be the reason that look is on your face.  You should be smiling. All the time.  I like it better when you smile._

            “Good. That’s good.  Rest, okay?  Heal up.”

            “Mmmhmmm.”

 

******************************************************

 

            Stiles looks pale as death against the threadbare motel sheets.  Derek almost shakes him awake the moment his eyes close because the image looks too close to a corpse.  Instead he hones in on Stiles’ pulse and breathing.

            _He’s alive. He’s okay. He’s alive._

The terror that’s been building the past hours starts to wane.  Outside Dean’s talking to Isaac, assuring him the bastard who did this is taken care of.  Derek still can’t quite believe the hunter killed a human for the sake of a wielder, but there’s no lie in Dean’s heartbeat.  It’s the truth. 

Derek tenses at Sam’s return from requesting Danny make the call, but he sees soon enough Sam’s just pushing a chair over for Derek.

            “Kinda looks like it might be a while before he’s really awake,” Sam says quietly. 

            “Thanks,” Derek replies, using his free hand to pull the chair up the rest of the way and take a seat.

            “I know we took a risk with him, but we asked him,” Sam says, “and you can be pissed all you want but—”

            “He wouldn’t have made it back to Deaton’s in time,” Derek interrupts.  “I know.”

            _Because if this is him almost two hours after you found him and gave him an antidote, you cut it way too damn close as it was, much less if you’d tried to get him home._

“Yeah,” Sam agrees.

            “We can pay you back for—”

            “Not necessary.”

            “Yes, it is.”

“Just remember this if we ever call in a favor on our end,” Sam says.  “A pack like yours makes damn good back-up.”

            Derek nods, hoping that repaying the favor won’t mean another battle of biblical proportions.  Right now he doesn’t care what they end up owing the Winchesters, as long as Stiles is still breathing. 

Sam walks back outside where the others are talking, leaving Derek alone with Stiles.  He wants to lean in and kiss him, but he restrains the urge.  He fiddles at the ring on the silver chain around his neck.  It’s Stiles’ or at least it will be, when they actually say their vows.   In the meantime, Derek keeps it close, and Stiles has Derek’s around his neck even now.  The hunters must’ve noticed it when they cleaned him up and put him in clean clothes that have Stiles smelling so strongly of the Winchesters that it puts a spark of territorial anger in Derek.  Still, it’s not an outright declaration, and no one’s mentioned it so far.  Derek’s going to see if they can’t ride it out as an Alpha worried for his Second and avoid the shitstorm likely to come if the brothers find out about this.  Derek gets the feeling they still see Stiles as human, despite his supernatural abilities.

It would also appear that they’ve got a bit more loyalty toward Stiles and the pack than Derek banked on.  They’d agreed en route that between Derek, Danny, and Isaac the hunter who hurt Scott and took Stiles wouldn’t be left alive; Derek had assumed that might mean an end to the growing alliance with the Winchesters and maybe Bobby too, but to the contrary, Dean still seems incensed even though the man’s been taken care of.  Derek still doesn’t trust them, but damn if this isn’t another hell of a step forward. 

_Hell’s freezing over and Mom might be rolling in her grave, but I kinda wonder if we can’t keep this up. There are worse friends we could make._

_No, not friends, they’re still fucking hunters._

_Comrades or some shit?_ Derek decides, smiling just a little at how Stiles would laugh at the name and all the Russian soldier jokes sure to stem from it. 

The thought brings his attention back to Stiles’ still form.

_God, he looks so fragile._

Derek knows Stiles is powerful. He’s a force to be reckoned with and far from some damsel in distress.  Nevertheless, it will always, _always_ terrify Derek how easy it is to break the body housing the soul he loves.  For maybe the billionth time Derek considers asking Stiles to take the bite.  He still isn’t even sure what would happen, and he knows Stiles will likely still answer ‘no’, but the temptation to fortify Stiles against the world as much as he can never goes away.

Stiles whines in his sleep, stirring just slightly as his brow furrows and he frowns.

“Shhhh,” Derek soothes, rubbing his thumb back and forth across the hand he’s holding.  “It’s okay, Stiles; you’re okay.”

Stiles mumbles something in reply that Derek doesn’t understand, and he grips Derek’s hand back just a little tighter before he drifts back to deeper sleep.

_Heal up, Stiles.  You’re okay. We didn’t lose you. I didn’t lose you._

_This time._

********************************************************

 

            Sam and Dean excuse themselves to go and grab pizza.  Isaac and Danny insist on footing the bill, even though Dean reminds them he’s got a credit card that they won’t pay on anyway.  Sam didn’t really expect Dean to hang around the pack this long, but maybe he shouldn’t be surprised given that Dean wasted Coleman with barely a blink.  He cares if Stiles comes out okay; they’ll probably leave once the kid wakes up again.

            “You see the way Hale acted?” Dean wonders as they drive, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the Metallica song on the radio. 

            “About what?” Sam asks, but he can guess the answer.

            “Seems kinda attached to Mowgli, doesn’t he?”

            “ _Stiles_ is his Second.  Of course he’s attached.”

            “You saw the rings same as me, Sam. Don’t play dumb.”

            “Maybe I just think it’s none of our business.”

Sam intended to stay quiet about it this time for the same reasons he’s never mentioned the occasional glances he caught at graduation and even months ago when Mr. Stilinski was in the hospital. 

He worries what Dean’s reaction will be, but Dean simply shrugs and says, “Yeah, maybe it’s not.”

_Really? That’s it?_

Dean stares out the windshield like he’s not really paying attention to the road. 

_Here it comes.  What’s your argument against it? Let’s have it._

“The whole Alpha thing,” Dean says.  “It work on wielders?”

“I dunno about wielders, but Stiles has a little werewolf mojo going.  I guess it kinda works.”  Dean doesn’t reply and Sam supposes, “You worried Hale didn’t give him a choice?”

Dean shrugs.  “Just curious.”

_Because of course you’re way too callous and collected to care about Stiles happiness or wellbeing.  You just shot a man in cold blood for poisoning him; hate to see what you’d pull on Hale if you thought Stiles was trapped with him._

“Mowgli growing on you?” Sam teases.

“Shut up.”

“Aw, aren’t you just precious?”

“Fuck you, the kid is not _growing_ on me.  He’s just—technically kinda human right? It’s our _job_ to look out for him.”

“Right.”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean repeats with a huff, sulking slightly that his little brother’s calling him out for showing his soft side.

“He almost died saving Derek’s life against the Alpha pack,” Sam reminds.  “That’s before he took on any of the werewolf qualities.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Come on, Dean.  You really think Derek could manipulate Stiles into a relationship? The kid’s clever as hell when he wants to be and a wielder besides.  He can hold his own; if he couldn’t he’d tell Bobby.  I’m sure it’s fine.”

_I hope it’s fine.  ‘Cause it’s kinda adorable.  Plus God bless the man who’s brave enough to take on Stiles for the rest of his life.  There’ll never be a dull moment in that marriage; that’s for sure._

All the same, Sam can’t help envying Stiles and Derek if they do manage to get this bit of normalcy into the craziness of their lives.  Sam stopped hoping for any such luck a long time ago; he’ll settle for living vicariously through hints of happiness in his friends.

 “Doesn’t matter anyway,” Dean says with a dismissive shrug. “Like you said, it’s not our business.”

            Sam holds back a smile because he could swear Dean’s visibly more relaxed to have talked this out.  Dean reaches to turn up the radio, and they drive on in silence.

 

********************************************************

 

            _Damn I feel like shit._

_Am I moving? That is some definite movement.  Where the hell am I?_

He opens his eyes into Derek’s, and Derek smiles at him, dazzling as ever.

            “Hey sleepyhead,” he greets.

            “Where are we?”

            “Headed home,” Derek says.  “Just an hour or so away now. Go back to sleep.”

            _Headed home.  In the car.  That’s what’s moving._

            “No, I’m good,” Stiles protests. 

            _I want to know what happened._

“Thank God,” Isaac responds from the passenger seat.  “You were snoring like a fucking foghorn.”

            “Was not,” Stiles retorts, but he can tell from the smirk on Derek’s face he probably was.  “Hey, you’re—we’re in the back— _you let someone else drive your car?_ ”

            “ _Hey_ , I’m an _excellent_ driver,” Danny protests from behind the wheel.

            “Yeah, but—Derek never lets—how bad was I?” he wonders.   “Pretty bad I guess, huh?”

            “Yeah, pretty bad,” Derek confirms, smile fading to a grim line.  “How much d’you remember?”

            “Bits and pieces,” Stiles answers.  He searches through memories, but there’s not much to piece together dose, just darkness and pain and the worried faces of various people swimming in and out of view.  “He poisoned me, right? Coleman?”

            “Yeah.”

            “What happened to him?”

            “Winchester took care of him.”

            “Sam?”

            “Dean.”

            “Really?” _Dean Winchester picked a Wielder over a hunter? I mean Coleman was clearly an asshole but still._ “Huh.”

            “Yeah.”

            “So guess we owe the Winchesters another one, huh?”

            “We did like stop a fucking seal of the apocalypse from breaking,” Isaac reminds.  “And technically you owe _Castiel_ for your Dad.”

            “Whatever, they still saved my ass.”

            “Yeah, yeah.”

            “Sorry I let him get the drop on me,” Stiles says.  “I guess—”

            “You will be getting one hell of a training schedule?” Derek finishes for him.  “Yeah, you’re right.”

            “I was _going_ to say ‘I guess everyone makes mistakes’, you Sourwolf.  You can’t make me run laps.  I’m sick,” he goes on, faking a cough.

            “Stop that,” Derek orders tersely. “That’s not funny.”

            “Okay, okay, sorry.”

            “You have to be even more alert than usual without the pack there to back you up.  You and Scott both have to step up your game.  You can’t just—dammit, Stiles, are you even listening?”

            “Yes!” Stiles insists, though in truth his eyes had wandered to the view out the window and wondering if his stomach could handle food yet.

            “Go back to sleep.  I’ll give you hell later,” Derek says with a sigh and a fond smile.

            “Just go for it while I’m out.  Same effect,” Stiles teases.

            “You little shit…”

            “You love me, and you know it.”

            “I do,” Derek agrees with too much solemnity.

 Stiles realizes guiltily how terrifying this ordeal probably was for him, especially having to rely on hunters to get Stiles to safety.

“Hey, I’m okay, Derek. Really.  No worries.”

            “Sleep,” Derek tells him, fingers running through Stiles hair and massaging his scalp, instantly relaxing Stiles.  “You’re still healing.”

            “Thanks for coming to get me,” Stiles says.  “All of you.”

            “You can send us fruit baskets when you feel up to it,” Isaac replies. 

            “Mmmhmm,” Stiles replies, eyes drooping again as Derek continues to soothe him to sleep.  “Can’t have you going off to college and getting scurvy.”

            He drifts off with their chuckles of amusement still in his ears.

 

*****************************************************

 

            Stiles doesn’t wake when they get him home.  Derek’s of course going to be staying a few days even thought Isaac and Danny have to get back to school.  Honestly, Derek’s not sure he’s gong to be able to let Stiles out of his sight for a month, much less go back to living so far away.  For the millionth time he wishes Stiles would just leave Beacon Hills for a while.  He knows that isn’t what Stiles wants nor is it what’s best for the pack.  It doesn’t make it any easier to be apart.

            The sheriff’s waiting for them, inspecting his son’s pallor and inquiring after his vitals.  He’s got Scott settled in his bedroom upstairs, sleeping as he too heals from the wolfsbane in his system. 

            “Get some rest, son,” the sheriff says to Derek.  “You look like hell.”

            “You too.”

            “I slept a bit,” the sheriff replies.  “Bet you haven’t slept a wink.”

            Derek can’t deny it.  He tucks Stiles into bed and climbs in beside him.  He lets the illusion of safety the pack house provides blanket him with calm.  The sheriff will be up, he’ll wake Derek if there’s a need.  He does need to rest; he’s got two wounded packmates to care for when he wakes.  He threads his fingers through Stiles, focuses on the steady, ever-strengthening beat of Stiles’ heart, and lets sleep take him.

 

           

 

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! :) Hope you enjoyed it!
> 
>  
> 
> Should you care to have a look, I started a tumblr just for my writing over at vague-shadows.tumblr.com


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, folks, I know it has been ENTIRELY too long since this 'verse was updated. Between the hectic way life has gone for me the past couple years and the difficulty of getting into a positive enough headspace to write this 'verse again, I left y'all hanging WAY longer than I meant to; here's hoping it doesn't happen again! I'll do my best.
> 
> Thanks so much for those who left comments in the meantime!!! I really, really hope you enjoy the chapter!!

           

* * *

 

 

            Derek Hale has faced hunters and monsters and demons.  He’s been on the verge of death more than once.  His life has been anything but a walk in the park.

            _So why the fuck am I losing it over a damn wedding?_

It’s nothing compared to the monstrosity Derek feared when Lydia first got involved in the planning--no string quartet or ten thousand dollar venues or live doves--despite her threats to mind control them into complying with her elaborate event.  Derek would have gone along with most of it, if he thought it was what Stiles _really_ wanted, but Stiles had a picture in his head of recreating his parents’ wedding--or drawing inspiration from it at least.   Lydia compromised of course, agreeing that “small and simple” could be reinvented as “intimate and elegant” to suit the glamorous spin she wanted to throw on things.  Derek has to admit she’s outdone herself.

            They set up the scene for the summer wedding out on the preserve-- an outdoor wedding inspired by Stiles’ parents’ ceremony, location inspired by Derek’s family  It’s the same centuries-old oak tree that’s presided over Hale marriages for generations, and it went along perfectly with Stiles’ vision of a sunset wedding.  Lydia had the pack out here adorning the trees with strings of lights early this morning.  The view off the bluff behind the tree is spectacular, and, as Stiles and Lydia have been sure to note multiple times, perfect for pictures.  Derek tries not to think about the fact that the raw emotion of this moment is going to be immortalized.  He still can’t believe he’s here, waiting on a wedding he never knew he wanted, to a man who means more to him than he could ever put into a few short vows and who knows him better than he ever thought possible. The vulnerability of it all terrifies him as much as it always does, but it doesn’t make him want this any less.  

            “Ready?” Deaton wonders, startling Derek from his reverie; Deaton’s supposed to take his place first, and then Derek and Stiles will take turns walking the short aisle down to the front of the group.  Deaton of all people is presiding over the ceremony--because of course the man’s ordained in addition to his laundry list of other roles.  Derek’s glad of it though.  The idea of a total stranger leading him and Stiles through their vows never really appealed to him.

            _Til death do you part…_

The words Derek’s soon to hear replay on a loop in his head.  Everyone here knows just how quickly that moment could be coming; it’s the terror that spurred Derek to propose in the first place.  He wonders again if he’s a coward for letting that fear bring all this about.  

            _It’s not the fear really; it’s that I want him to know what he means to me. I want the world to know what we are to each other.  There’s just something about making it official that seems--overdue,_ Derek thinks as he starts walking from his place behind the oak to the arch under which Deaton waits.  

            Derek knows all too well that he can’t take for granted that he and Stiles will grow old together, not with the kind of lives they lead.  But with the pack here in show of support---a pack Derek can’t imagine building successfully without Stiles at his side--and Stiles grinning at him as he comes from the opposite side of the arch to join Derek, Derek pushes the pessimistic musing away for a while.  Tonight, Stiles is here and safe and _getting married_ to Derek and the obvious elation on his face overshadows all Derek’s worries.

            “If you could all be seated,” Deaton requests, and Stiles looks over to Derek, biting at his lip as his eyes scan Derek’s face.  

            “You could still make a run for it, Sourwolf,” he murmurs with a half-hearted grin.  

            “Never,” Derek replies firmly, resisting the temptation to roll his eyes and reaching a hand out to grab Stiles’ as Deaton begins the ceremony.  

            “Dearly beloved,” Deaton begins, “We are gathered here today…”

 

**********************************************

 

            Stiles didn’t know it was possible to be this elated and not absolutely burst with the sheer volume of euphoria singing through his veins.  

            _Well, didn’t know you could be this happy outside of sex,_ he amends, smiling to himself.  

            “I know that look,” Derek murmurs in his ear, as he joins Stiles at the cake table.  “And I’m going to remind you that _you_ are the one who agreed to let Lydia do all the reception stuff. Otherwise we could be--”

            “Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Stiles replies.  “Besides, we’ve got our whole lives for that.”

            “Well, I think we might have to take an _occasional_ break.”

            “Okay, you two,” the photographer says, cutting across the conversation.  “Ready when you are.”

            “If you shove cake in my face,” Derek warns as he and Stiles slice pieces for the two provided plates.  “I’ll rip your throat out with my teeth.”

            “Me?” Stiles replies in mock affront.  “How could you accuse me of even think--”

            Before he can even finish the sentence, Derek beats Stiles to the punch, cramming cake in his open mouth before smearing icing all over his cheek for good measure.  

            “Dead! You are _so very_ dead!” Stiles sputters back, retaliating by simply flinging the other pieces towards Derek’s face.  He’s too busy laughing at Stiles to effectively dodge, so he’s got his own smear of icing to match Stiles’.

            “Lovely, guys, _really_ graceful,” Lydia chastises, but Derek couldn’t care less about her disapproval. Nothing is ruining his mood tonight.

            “You couldn’t _possibly_ have thought _anything_ about _my_ wedding was going to be graceful,” Stiles replies.  

            “A girl can dream,” she replies with a sigh.  

            Stiles expected Derek to _loathe_ the reception.  In fact, Derek had sworn, on several occasions, that he would hate every minute.  But Derek’s possibly the happiest Stiles has ever seen him, especially in front of this many people outside their pack.  There are Stiles’ teachers, some old family friends, deputies from the sheriff’s department--and yet Derek doesn’t seem to give a shit who sees him grin constantly at Stiles, or dance horribly to the awfully cheesy love songs this DJ is playing.  Derek seems thoroughly wrapped up in the moment, wrapped up in Stiles.  He looks so much _younger_ than he normally does, and it’s nice to watch him when he doesn’t seem to be bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders.

So by the time the party winds down and they retreat from the reception amid an assault of bird seed, Stiles is practically _aching_ to get his new husband alone.  The moment the limo door shuts behind them, Stiles crashes his lips to Derek’s.  Derek seems just as desperate, kissing back hard, sweeping his tongue deep into Stiles eager mouth.  Stiles pushes at Derek’s jacket, freeing his shoulders, and Derek takes the hint, stripping it off the rest of the way himself.  

“Wait, hold on,” Derek says breathlessly.  “We really going to do this in the back of a limo?”

“Bucket list,” Stiles replies.  “And it’s almost a two hour drive to the resort.  I will _die_ of blue balls and so will you,” he adds with a pointed look to where Derek’s erection is already tenting the pants of his tux. “Slow, tender sex later,” Stiles says.  “This is quick, dirty, I-need-to-fuck-my-husband- _right-fucking-now_ sex.”

Derek’s eyes flare red at Stiles’ words and _holy shit_ it’s almost enough to have him coming in his pants at this point.  

“My husband,” Derek repeats, just a hint of a growl in his voice as his eyes flare red and he leans back in to meet Stiles’ lips.  

Stiles reaches down between them, fumbling for the button and zipper first on Derek’s pants and then his own.  He shivers and the cool air in the limo reaches his exposed dick.  Derek guides Stiles down to his back on the smooth leather of the back seat, bracing with one elbow to keep his full weight off Stiles and rutting his erection down against Stiles’ thigh.  Stiles spits in his hand, a poor excuse for lube, but it’ll do for now, and reaches to wrap his hand around both their aching cocks as best he can. The wanton groan it gets from Derek vibrates down Stiles throat, and has his hips bucking up into Derek’s, aching for friction.  

They find a rhythm, quick and careless and far from steady in the moving car, but it’s enough.  Any other time it would be a disappointment how quickly Stiles comes, Derek right behind him, muffling his groan into Stiles’ shoulder.  Tonight, Stiles is glad of it.  Lying here, spent, underneath Derek--his _husband_ Derek--Stiles feels like he can finally breathe for the first time today.

 

***************************************************************

 

“We’re worse than damned teenagers,” Derek mutters as they do their best to clean up their mess with the napkins in the limo’s mini bar.  

“Technically, I’m _still_ a teenager,” Stiles reminds.  “You cradle robber, you,” he adds affectionately, leaning over for a kiss.  “And just as a disclaimer, that’s not the _only_ bucket list item I intend to go for tonight.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow in question.  “Oh really now?”

“Really,” Stiles replies, settling in beside Derek on the seat now the cleanup is done.    He leans over to whisper in Derek’s ear.  “I’m gonna blow.your.mind. tonight, Mr. Hale,” he promises before sucking at the skin along Derek’s neck starting a hickey Derek might just leave for a day or so before letting it heal.  

“Is that so, Mr. Hale?” Derek replies, enjoying the way the title feels on his lips.

“Fuck, I like the sound of that,” Stiles says, pulling away from the hickey and settling for just lacing his fingers through Derek’s with his head on Derek’s shoulder.  

“Me too. And I like that you like it,” Derek confesses with a giddy grin.  

“You are unfairly attractive when you’re smiling,” Stiles informs fondly.  “I love you, you know?  And we’re totally gonna do this happily ever after thing.  It’s gonna be awesome.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, “Already is.”

 

****************************************************

 

            The resort they booked for the coming week is an extravagant, spacious cabin hidden away in the California forest.  Stiles had browsed plenty of options on the coast, and he’s sure Derek would have been fine with any of them, but Derek _loves_ the isolation and solitude of the preserve.  In the end, Stiles decides that since the week is supposed to be all about them anyway, the middle-of-nowhere option is the best one.  He can’t really see Derek managing to fully relax anyplace remotely crowded, and the pull of the pack bond is going to be distracting enough on its own.

            After days of excitement and chaos that ended in probably the most perfect day of his life, Stiles is exhausted.  He wanders through the cabin with Derek, exploring the home-away-from-home, but it’s not long before he makes his way to the plush king-sized bed, lounging back into the silky blue pillows propped at the headboard with a contented sigh.

            “Damn this bed is comfy.”

            “Mmmm,” Derek agrees, joining him on the bed looking just as spent.  “Once the adrenaline finally started fading, the whole day kind of hit me at once.”

            “Taking the edge off in the limo probably didn’t help,” Stiles adds with a smirk.  “Not that I regret it.”

            “It’s not a race,” Derek reminds, “We’ve got a whole week, just us.”

            “God, that sounds so nice,” Stiles says.  “There hasn’t been nearly enough ‘just us’ lately.”

            They’ve survived the pack’s freshman year of college, and with it the nine months of a long-distance relationship.  Stiles still isn’t so sure that long-distance marriage is going to be any easier, but he didn’t want to wait three years to get married either, especially not after the close call of being kidnapped by a hunter.  They’ll have a couple months with the back all together in Beacon Hills before fall classes start.  Then, it will be back to phone calls and Facetime and dorky, sappy snail mail.

            Derek sits up, kicking off his shoes.  Stiles follows suit, and they undress down to their boxers in maybe the least sexy way possible, but there will be time for that later.  Hurried, we-almost-died sex they’ve had plenty of, and will have again he’s sure.  Languid, lounge-around-like-normal-boring-people is something Stiles could stand a little more of.  They settle back on the bed, and Stiles curls into Derek’s side, breathing in the familiar scent of him as he rests his head on Derek’s chest. Derek drapes his arm over Stiles, keeping him close, and it’s not long before they both drift off to sleep.

 

****************************************************

 

            Derek opens his eyes to see the bright blue numbers on the clock by the bed declaring it’s past two in the morning. The next moment he realizes what woke him; Stiles is mumbling in his sleep, warm breath tickling against Derek’s skin as he speaks.   Derek assumes Stiles is having a nightmare, given the way Stiles’ brow is furrowed and he’s frowning slightly.  Derek hates to think the horrors of the past are haunting a time that’s supposed to be perfect, but then Stiles speaks again, more clearly.

            “Gimme back the marshmallows!” he demands, and Derek can’t help but burst into laughter.  “Wha’s funny?” Stiles wonders as he opens his eyes blearily and moves so he can look up at Derek.

            “Someone took your marshmallows?” Derek replies with a grin.

            “Yeah, these stupid little fairies,” Stiles confirms grumpily, still half-asleep.  “Totally not cool to steal a man’s marshmallows.”

            “Totally not cool,” Derek agrees.  “I bet there are some marshmallows in the kitchen though.  It’s supposed to be fully stocked.”

            “And what self-respecting cabin wouldn’t have hot chocolate and marshmallows?” Stiles reasons.  “C’mon.  I’m kind of starving anyway.  I got like two bites of food tops at the reception.  Plus of course that cake you shoved in my face and enjoyed it way too much,” Stiles replies.   “Well, not too much, because it _was_ pretty hilarious.  Especially the look on Lydia’s face.”

            “It was pretty great.”

“The whole reception was, huh?” Stiles supposes.  “You enjoyed it too, didn’t you?”

            “Surprisingly, I did,” Derek says, unabashed. “Funny how much everything else fades to the background when you’ve just married the love of your life.”

            “I know what you mean,” Stiles says, leaning in for a quick kiss before pushing himself up off the bed and heading for the kitchen.  

            Derek settles back onto the bed, closing his eyes again though he’s feeling much more rested after a few hours’ sleep.  The tranquility of the moment is disrupted by Stiles’ cry from the kitchen.

            “Holy shit, Derek! Get in here!”

            He’s up off the bed and halfway to the kitchen before it processes that Stiles sounds excited rather than alarmed.  He finds Stiles staring into the fridge with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

            “What is it?”

            “Supplies,” Stiles answers the a grin, nodding for Derek to look in the refrigerator too.  “Definitely fully stocked and definitely for a honeymoon.”

            There’s chilled champagne, chocolate covered strawberries, caramel, and whipped cream all arranged on a ornate silver tray in the fridge.  It’s clearly intended to be easily transported, and Stiles is already pulling it out of the fridge.  His eyes are alight with excitement as he looks at Derek, biting at his bottom lip, driving Derek crazy without even trying.

            “More bucket list stuff?” Derek supposes, and Stiles nods, blushing as Derek continues to gaze at him.

            “I mean--if you want to.  Just kind of one of those things you always see in sappy movies and--I dunno.  If there’s ever a time for sappy, cliche’ sex, it’s your honeymoon, right?”

            Derek shrugs.  “Guess so.”

            “So is that a yes?”

            Derek can’t help but think aloud, “Kinda messy isn’t it?”

            “That’s what damp washcloths are for,” Stiles replies.  “And showers after.”

            Derek can’t help the smirk spreading across his face, “You’ve _really_ thought about this, huh?”

            “You want to or not, Sourwolf?” Stiles replies, but the blush in his cheeks deepens at the comments, and Derek wants to get Stiles’ shirt off and appreciate just how far down the crimson flush goes.

            “I do,” Derek replies, leaning in for a quick kiss.

            “Think I just had a little deja vu there,” Stiles teases, reaching to take the tray from the fridge.

 

***************************************************

 

            “Grab your tie,” Derek says as Stiles places the gleaming tray of goodies on the nightstand.

            “Thought we were headed in the direction of _less_ clothing,” Stiles replies, raising an eyebrow at the oddity of the request.

            “Blindfold,” Derek says by way of explanation, and Stiles pulse begins to race with excitement.

            “You’ve thought about this more than you’re letting on,” Stiles guesses with a pleased smile.  “Haven’t you?”

            Derek shrugs.  “Maybe. You want to do the blindfold thing or not?”

            “Definite yes,” Stiles answers eagerly, grabbing the silk tie and taking a seat on the bed.  

            His hands tremble just a bit as he strips off the thin shirt he was sleeping in, exposing his chest to the chill of the air.  He ties the smooth, cool cloth of the tie around his eyes, tempted to leave a little sliver to peek through, but he resists the urge, more excited at the thought of having Derek keep him surprised and guessing.  They haven’t even _done_ anything yet and Stiles’ can already feel his cock hardening in anticipation.   

            _This is gonna blow my goddamn mind, isn’t it?_ he thinks.

“That’s the plan,” Derek replies, voice low and lust-filled, and Stiles is mortified to realize he said that _out loud._

His lips meet Stiles’ briefly, hands grasping Stiles’ shoulders to ease him down on the bed.  Stiles lies still were Derek places him, the middle of the bed from what Sitles can tell, and desperately tries to resist the urge to fidget, wondering if Derek’s watching him--whether he likes what he sees if he is watching-- trying to imagine what happens next and grinning giddily at all the possibilities his mind conjures up.  

Derek moves slowly enough that Stiles can sense a bit of movement, so he’s not startled by something cool and rough against his lips.  He open his mouth and tastes the sweetness of the strawberry, biting down into the fruit and feeling the excess juice trickle out the corner of his mouth.  Derek pulls the strawberry away, kissing at the corner of Stiles’ lips, licking away the sticky sweet before kiss Stiles full on the mouth.  

 

******************************************************************************

 

Derek’s pulse is racing as he tries to decide what move to make next.  He’s thought about this before, dozens of times--attempting something kind of cliche but romantic with Stiles.  There’s just so rarely any _time--_ time for languid foreplay, or the planning thereof.  Derek makes a mental note to reserve this cabin every anniversary for the foreseeable future.  He wants more nights like this--a million more.

_That is of course, assuming this doesn’t end up as an awkward, embarrassing failure.  I still have no goddamn idea what I’m doing._

“Dunno if you’re taking requests,” Stiles says, “but I think there was mango on that tray and you know it’s my fav--”

Derek interrupts the sentence by making good on the request, and Stiles closes his lips around the offered fruit with an “mmmmm.”  Derek flounders for a moment or two, wondering what he should go for next--and how long this is supposed to last anyway.   _Is Stiles gonna get bored?_ He opts for a second piece of mango, waiting for Stiles to swallow before he climbs up on the bed, straddling Stiles and leaning down for a quick kiss, which earns him a smile.  He can feel Stiles’ half-hard cock through the cotton of his boxers and smell Stiles’ arousal; Derek’s glad the eroticism of the moment is heading in the direction it’s supposed to be.  Derek takes a few moments to appreciate the sight of Stiles before he bends to bring his lips to Stiles’ nipple, swirling his tongue around before sucking hard, relishing the soft moan it pull from Stiles.  Derek teases a bit more, slowly working his way up to nip a line along Stiles’ collarbone and up his neck, hoping Stiles will keep the spots from healing, just for a little while.   He sits back up, reaching for another strawberry and plucking the leaves off.  This time he delivers it to Stiles’ mouth with his own, smiling as the move turns into a sloppy kiss.

“Not that the blindfolded thing isn’t hot as hell,” Stiles says when their lips part, “but I wanna _see_ you,” he whines.  “Tease me more another night?”

Derek reaches to remove the blindfold as he leans down for another quick kiss.  “All about that eye candy, huh?” he jokes.  

Stiles’ hand comes to Derek’s cheek, pushing him away just a bit, and Stiles’ eyes are alight with happiness as he replies, “You just look so happy tonight.  I don’t wanna miss a minute of it.”

“I _am_ happy tonight,” Derek replies.  “You always make me happy.”

“When I’m not annoying the hell out of you.”

“ _Always_ ,” Derek repeats, “Mr. Hale,” he adds with a grin.  Stiles beams back up at him and Derek honestly thinks he might burst with the ridiculous joy of everything that’s finally _finally_ gone so very right the past few days.  

 

****************************************************************************

 

            Stiles is all for the foreplay.  He really, _really_ is.  He’s thought through how their wedding night would go about a bajillion times in his head. He’s watched his fair share of porn that lends to all sorts of ideas of sexy, crazy, awesome honeymoon sex.  But he’s reminded, as Derek continues to all but worship every last inch of him, that Stiles Stilinski Hale, is _not_ a patient man.   It’s not long at all before his hips are bucking up off the bed of their own accord, and he’s desperately running his hands all over every inch of Derek he can reach.  He threads his fingers into the hair at the nape of Derek’s neck, pulling him up for a kiss, fucking his tongue up into Derek’s mouth as he tries to quicken their pace.  Derek follows his lead, grinding his rock hard cock against Stiles’ and moaning into their kiss.  

            ‘I’m going to lose my fucking mind, Derek,” Stiles gasps when their lips part.  “Just fuck me? _Please._ ”

            “‘Kay,” Derek agrees readily.  “We can flip for it if you wanna--”

            “Fuck. Me. Now,” Stiles orders in reply.

            “Did you pack--?”

            “Blue duffle bag; side pocket,” Stiles answers, realizing too late that in a cabin this well-stocked for a honeymoon there may well have been some condoms and lube in the nightstand drawer.  It seems Derek’s just as eager as Stiles though, because he’s back in what seems--and probably was--superhuman time.

            He slips his fingers under the elastic of Stiles’ boxers, pulling them down excruciatingly slowly, and Stiles feels the slight chill as his aching cock is exposed to the air.  He tilts his hips upward flailing one arm upward to grasp a pillow to help prop him up. Derek kicks off his own boxers unceremoniously and tosses them to the floor.  He gets back on the bed slowly, moving up for a kiss once Stiles is settled with the pillow under his hips. Derek teases just a little longer, despite Stiles’ impatient sighs, reaching to stroke Stiles’ leaking cock, which has his sighs turning to moans in an instant.

“Come on, Derek.  Give me _something_ ,” Stiles demands, closing his eyes as he flops an arm over his face dramatically.  

When Derek’s slick finger finally circles Stiles’ hole, his whole body tenses for a moment.  He gasps, then lets his breath out more slowly, relaxing under the touch.  Derek slides the first finger in and Stiles’ lets out something between a moan and a whimper, hips arching off the bed and seeking _more_ almost immediately.  It seems like Derek’s finally running out of patience, too, picking up the pace when he adds another finger, and another.  

“I’m ready,” Stiles says, “ _So_ fucking ready,” he pants, but Derek doesn’t act instantly on the declaration, still working Stiles open with his fingers, apparently using whatever bits of patience he has left.  

When Derek pulls his fingers out, Stiles bites at his lip to suppress a whine, grateful it’s only a moment or two before Derek’s pressing inside him again, cock stretching Stiles wide and filling him up in the best fucking way.  Derek rests his head in the crook of Stiles’ neck for a moment panting, “Good?” And waiting for Stiles’ nod before he begins to move, one hand holding Stiles’ out to the side, fingers laced tightly together, the other bracing next to Stiles’ head.  Stiles reaches between them to stroke himself in rhythm with Derek’s deep, steady thrusts.

“Fuck, yes, right there!” Stiles moans when Derek hits the perfect angle.  “Right there; don’t stop; harder!” he squeezes at the base of his cock to hold back his orgasm, not ready for this to be over.  He can tell be Derek’s quickening and stilted pace that he’s close, too.  

“So fucking close--are you?” Derek asks breathlessly, and Stiles tries to answer with a word but all that comes out is a needy, wanton moan, and he’s coming hard, letting loose a stream of praises and curse words that may or may not be intelligible.   “Fuck, Stiles, fuck, yes gonna---!” Derek grunts, reaching his release just after Stiles’.  Stiles vaguely thinks he should do something to intensify the moment, but he’s still coming down from his own high and all he can manage is squeezing Derek’s tightly laced fingers with his own.  Derek all but collapses on top of him, head tucked into the crook of Stiles’ neck again, murmuring words Stiles’ can’t quite make out.  After a while Derek pulls out slowly and rolls onto his side, still curled up against Stiles like he doesn’t want to lose the contact.  Stiles blushes under Derek’s intense gaze, unable to define why it makes him feel oddly exposed.

“What?” Stiles asks finally.

“Nothing,” Derek replies with a grin that’s got a touch of melancholy in it that Stiles doesn’t want to hear; not ever, but especially not tonight.  “Love you,” he murmurs with a smile, pecking a kiss on Stiles’ shoulder before rolling off the bed to head toward the bathroom.

“Love you, too,” Stiles says after him.  “Where’re you running off to?”

“Clean up,” Derek replies, and Stiles hears the water turn on.  Derek emerges with a washcloth and towel.  “Unless you’re in the mood for a shower? Bath?”

“Un-uh,” Stiles declines.  “I’m too fucking tired for that.  Maybe in the morning.  We’ve got all week,” he reminds with a blissful smile.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, reaching to swipe the warm washcloth across Stiles’ chest.   

“Are you okay?” Stiles wonders, worried again by the less-than-euphoric tone in Derek’s voice.  

“Of course.”

“Something’s bothering you.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Derek, please? Talk to me,” Stiles requests, sitting up in bed and reaching his hand to Derek’s cheek to encourage his eyes to find Stiles’.

“Just my usual pessimism,” Derek dismisses, meeting Stiles’ gaze for just a moment before pulling his face from Stiles’ touch and looking away again.  “Nothing to worry about; really.”

“About what? Us?” Stiles wonders, heart plummeting at the terrible idea. “‘Cause it’s a little late for the cold feet, Sourwolf,” he presses on, trying to keep his tone light.  “We already--”

“No, God no! Not that.  I don’t regret--I’ll _never_ regret--you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Stiles; you know that.”

“Then what? The pack? We’re only going to be gone a week--less if you’re _really_ that--”

“Right, a week,” Derek replies.  “And maybe not even that long if the next shitstorm hits before the honeymoon’s over.  That’s not how life is supposed to work! That’s not what you should--” Derek’s sentence cuts off with a miserable sound, almost a whine, like he’s trying desperately to quell the worry bubbling forth.

And despite Stiles’ dislike of this conversation, he’s all too familiar with the topic, and some of his anxiety ebbs away now that he understands.   

“Hey, look at me,” Stiles requests, and this time Derek holds eye contact.  “Free trial was up years ago,” he reminds with a smile.  “I had my moment to bail, and I didn’t. I was all in. I still am.  The benefits of this life outweigh the craziness.”

Derek doesn’t reply, but a hint of a smile plays at his lips.  Stiles takes it as a good sign.   

“You worry too much, Sourwolf,” Stiles informs, leaning forward to press a kiss to Derek’s forehead.  

“Yeah,” Derek agrees.  “Comes with the territory, I guess.”

“Well, I promised in front of everyone to love you even if you get wrinkles and go prematurely gray with all your worrying,” Stiles points out.  “But don’t worry tonight.  Tonight we’re celebrating.”

“Pretty sure it’s morning,” Derek replies, avoiding an outright acceptance of the request.  “Sun will be up soon.”

“Which means we should be sleeping,” Stiles suggests.  “And not worrying.  So that there will be lots of energy for sex in every possible place and position before we have to go back to babysitting the pack and figuring out how to soundproof our bedroom.”

Derek huffs a laugh at that, and Stiles takes it as a victory as he pulls Derek by the forearm and lays back on the bed. Derek lays down next to him, head resting on Stiles’ chest.  Stiles runs his fingers through Derek’s hair, and it isn’t long before Derek’s asleep.  Stiles stares up at the ceiling, replaying the endless stream of picture-perfect moments from the day.  

_Yeah, maybe this life is nuts; but the good days really do make it worth it; more than worth it._

_And today was a fucking amazing day._

 

***********************************

 

            When they arrive home a week later, relaxed and “disgustingly happy” according to Jackson, there’s a pile of wedding presents waiting to be unwrapped.  Stiles sets to the task almost immediately while Derek dutifully keeps track of where each gift came from so they can write thank you cards.  Most are the usual fare: photo albums, knick-knacks, household stuff.  One of the last boxes Stiles opens contains a worn old copy of Little Red Riding Hood and a gift card to Home Depot.  Stiles laughs out loud when he reads the post-it note bearing the message:

            “Sorry I couldn’t make the wedding, kid.  Get something for your house or whatever, since, thankfully, research indicates you guys don’t actually live in some creepy werewolf den or something.    ----Bobby”

           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> And a shout-out to Strangeredlantern for being an excellent beta for this chapter (and also a very big part of how I got in a positive enough headspace to start writing for this 'verse again <3 )

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading and for all of you who've stuck around this long! :D Y'ALL ROCK!
> 
> And thank you for your patience!!!


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